On the Run (Whispering Key #2) - May Archer Page 0,54

time and keep you safe. And then I’d—”

“Oh, fuck. Oh, yeah. Fuck, Beale! Fuck.” Toby came in giant splatters that hit my chest, my stomach, and the patch of pubic hair right above my dick, and, no lie, it felt like the greatest accomplishment of my entire life.

I’d done that. I’d made him do that.

We smiled at each other wildly, then fell to the ground side by side with the lounge cushion under our heads, both our chests heaving like we’d swum all the way back from the island and run back to the house.

Gold afternoon sunlight fell through the slats of the pergola’s roof, creating rainbow fractals that burst on the inside of my eyelids—beautiful Catherine wheels of color splashing across my brain.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. I’d never felt more at peace. And the idea drifted across my brain that I’d been so, so, so wrong, because it turned out “oh” and “fuck” and “yeah” were maybe the most expressive three syllables in the English language.

And I wouldn’t have known that, if not for Toby.

He was right. His blow jobs really did change lives.

It was a long moment later when he finally turned his head toward me. “That was.” He had to pause and swallow, still breathless. “Seriously high quality. Eight point five out of ten.”

My heart, which had finally slowed down slightly, started to beat faster, not with fear but promise. “Not sure how it could get better than that.”

I turned my head and found him grinning.

“Give me a few minutes and I’ll show you,” he promised.

And then… he did.

9

Toby

Help Me Hagatha (Issue #2441)

Dear Aunt Hagatha:

I’m not like most of the people who usually write you. I’ve actually got a perfect life! My job pays well, my girlfriend is amazing, and my family loves me a lot. I remind myself each day to be grateful.

But every once in a while, I wish I could just walk away from it all and start over. That I could build something… different. How can I stop myself from feeling this way?

Roberta in Ridgemont

Dear Bobbikins,

You can’t.

I mean, you could. Or you could try, anyway. But, like… what for? You get one life. So cowgirl up, get thee a therapist (no, but for reals, tho), own your feelings, and make some big changes. You just might find your perfect life gets even perfect-er.

Best of luck darling,

Your Aunt H.

“Listen, missy, what did we discuss earlier today?” I lifted one eyebrow. “I don’t need you over here, rubbing yourself all up in my business, while I’m trying to cook and I’ve still gotta get ready for Littlejohn’s Trivia Night.”

Marjorie twined herself around my ankles, looking as innocent as a ginger floof the size of a small tank possibly could—which was to say, not innocent in the slightest—and I shot her a warning glare before continuing to spread the cinnamon sugar topping on the french toast casserole I was preparing for the following morning.

Yes, to reiterate, I, Toby Elford, was standing in a tiny Florida kitchen, drowning bread products in cream and covering them with enough butter and sugar to give myself a contact high, using a recipe of my mom’s I somehow remembered perfectly, despite not thinking of it since leaving Ohio a billion years ago, whilst chatting with a cat and preparing to engage in a trivia night organized by a man who’d shouted at the television the other night that Europe was a country in Asia.

Who the fuck was I?

How the fuck had I gotten here?

Why the fuck wasn’t I running away as fast as my shapely legs could carry me?

Excellent questions, all.

I recalled only vague glimpses of my descent into this madness. There was that blow job by the pool on Saturday, after the harrowing horror of our trip to the Island of Plovers. A decidedly non-platonic night in the guest room with Marjorie locked firmly out and Beale’s arms locked firmly around me.

Breakfast at this little restaurant called the Concha on Sunday, followed by a barbecue at Rafe’s house that had ended up being way too crowded for the inquisition Big Rafe had wanted to give me, and which Beale and I had left early so we could walk on the beach at sunset… holding hands, because apparently that was a thing fake soul mates did.

More coffee at the Bean yesterday, after which we’d checked on the contractors at Mason’s house and attended a town meeting about the end-of-summer Whispering Key Extravaganza that, in retrospect, should not have intrigued